


Breathe

by bloodandcream



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, this is just a weird jumpy fic over the years, told from Cas' pov
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-31
Updated: 2014-08-31
Packaged: 2018-02-15 12:39:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,422
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2229300
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bloodandcream/pseuds/bloodandcream
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What is in a breath.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Breathe

His breath is whiskey sour and damp as it ghosts across the curve of an exposed shoulder; Castiel turns his head to nudge against Dean but the man refuses to leave the comfort of hiding against Cas’ shoulder as he thrusts shallowly and arches his back, bodies pressed so flush together Castiel can not only feel his breath shudder in heated puffs against his skin, but can feel the push of his ribs as lungs expand and contract with heaving breaths.

He’s cupped this man’s soul in the hold of his grace and stitched his body anew, he can heal all physical ailments and reanimate the breath in his lungs, but there are aches and rifts that run deeper, deeper than even breath and soul and the beat of his heart, things Castiel cannot touch or know or heal.

The angel does not need to breathe, he does not require sustenance or time to maintain his body, for his grace heals and sustains the vessel; he does not need but he is beginning to want for, the more time he spends removed from heaven. Spreading his legs he grips tight against the arms framing his head and measures the breaths panted against his skin as they shorten and hitch. He has counted this man’s breaths, how they quicken, how they catch, but there is never a formula for Castiel to know. Every time it is different.

Understanding may elude him, but visceral drive guides him, the two of them colliding and shattering, detritus flung away gathered again before they can repeat practiced movements, breathing against each other with rasping breath in the dark.

-

For all it’s flaws and potential capacity for fatal error, the human body is truly a marvel of engineering, like so many of his Father’s creations. Castiel found the act of breathing to be a uniquely telling and intricate function of the body. Normally regulated by the autonomic functioning of the brain one could discern a human’s condition and intention through their state of breathing. Pulse and breath working to oxygenate the body, different states of being causing fluctuation whether conscious or unconscious to fuel the body.

The heart and lungs, caged in by ribs to protect them. Breathing to pull air into the body which is filtered through the network of pulmonary arteries wrapped around the alveoli. The average human lungs contain six hundred million alveoli. Oxygen is passed into the blood stream and carried through the heart, filtered back through the intricate system the carbon is expelled. It’s a beautifully delicate system, intricate, vulnerable.

There are so many weak points on the human body, but the neck, soft and often exposed, holds major arteries and the trachea. The whole system is dependant on breath, something as insubstantial, as intangible as air.

-

Tan skin smeared with blood and stubbled jaw already blooming with bruises, his breath is wet and ragged. Castiel can hear the blood gurgle in his mouth as he pleads, why, why, but isn’t it obvious, Castiel did not rebel for him to have it all thrown in his face, did not give everything to him for it all to be undone with a single breath of ‘yes’, did not suffer and doubt and trust for this. He refuses to be betrayed by a single word, refuses to let Dean forget.

Dean gasps and cries through what breath he can pull in around bruised ribs – Castiel knows, he gave him those – nose a crooked angle and eyes wide and pained with a hurt transcending bodily injury. Castiel huffs out a breath across that broken face, he doesn’t need to, he doesn’t breathe in order to live but he’s learned these little mannerisms, to sigh, to gasp, to express oneself in breath. It’s a means of communication, as intricate and varied as the human populace.

There’s pain in Dean’s breath, there’s something there in between the words that slips from his lips unspoken, unbidden. It’s amazing how they can communicate with so little, separated by the infinite distances between minds, trapped in their corporeal bodies. But there’s something for Castiel to know in the shape of his lips, the push of his breath, copper sharp and shuddering, desperate.

-

Some ancient cultures believed that there was a fire in the belly which fueled the bellows of one’s lungs, expelling the steam of breath. It’s an interesting notion, that the human body at it’s core was a volatile element, something primal, something passionate. Castiel is beginning to understand fire. To understand destruction and consumption.

He’s not sure if it’s more simple, or more advanced, for people to use their imaginations to weave stories of purpose and origination from nothingness in an attempt to understand their world, their bodies, their minds. Perhaps the modern knowledge of the intricate machinations of the body, though far more technically advanced and knowledgeable of the physical reality, is lacking in something.

Lacking in the breath of a flame. Not merely for the purpose of existence, of subsistence, the requisite necessities of the body. But fueling the breath of more, feeding something within that’s more than could possibly be understood through dissection.

-

Nobody cares that you’re broken Cas.

Words he speaks with his cracked breath in the company of others is heavy with a weary frustration , words spoken Castiel suspects are more for his own benefit, trying to convince himself more than anyone else. Which of course doesn’t make it hurt any less, those times that Dean sees so little in him, is it no wonder Castiel does not come to him more then, does not confide in him when Dean has so little to give.

He gives later though, when it’s quiet and dark, when they’re alone and no one can be witness to the man’s softness, the way he whispers a litany of apology with only the heat of his breath across shivering skin, breathing against every dip and swell of Castiel’s body. Of course Castiel accepts it, he’ll accept anything Dean says to feel breath against his skin like life and warmth and connection. He’ll accept everything the man gives be it hurtful or euphoric, how many times has he forgiven Dean and how many more will he, but there is no forgiveness twisted in his breath for Castiel.

He takes and takes, sucking down Castiel’s breath, second hand, from the heat of lungs deep within, and Castiel gives and he gives. He’s an angel, he doesn’t need this breath, he would give it all to Dean.

It puzzles him though, how it stutters in his lungs and thickens in his throat. Something so incorporeal, a breath, heaving and heavy in his body when he moves underneath Dean, eyes bright and wide and uncomprehending in the darkness of night.

-

In ancient Greek, Pneuma could mean, alternately, breath or soul, dependant on the context. Some believed that breath was the vehicle of the soul. That the air trapped within bodies circulating through the system held souls captive. When the body dies and expels it’s last breath it looses a certain weight, and some have said that’s the soul. Given on the last breath to be carried heavenward, perhaps.

Does that mean, then, that when you breath another person in, lips to lips, you can taste their soul. Is that the intimacy of a kiss. 

-

Castiel has to be mindful to take a deep breath, he needs breath now, needs air and food and warmth and shelter like he never has before, needs Dean more than he could admit to himself. Breath stops and stutters and he has to remember to breathe but every sensation is immeasurably more than it ever has been before and how curious is that, his senses are different and weaker and limited as a human yet he feels more.

He can’t control the erratic pull of his breath rattling his lungs, writhing underneath the other man who keeps telling him to open his eyes, take a deep breath, you’re all right Cas you’re all right stay with me, and he can only reach his arms up fathomless distance to bring the other down to him.

He’ll never be able to touch Dean with his grace again or cradle his soul, never be able to see his vivid energy thrumming beneath the surface or sense the tension of guilt on his shoulders, but he can breathe him in, deep gasping lungfuls pulling him down and kissing him recklessly, sucking the breath out of him, it’s the closest he’ll get anymore.


End file.
